Les chansons à la Nuit
by L. Harris
Summary: A prequel, of sorts, to the nineteenth century novel by Gaston Leroux. Although I attempted to remain true to Leroux's original tale, as an avid Phantom phan, it comes as a matter of course that there will be some musical ties.
1. Chapter 1

The dull _clop clop_ of the horse's hooves as they pounded the packed dirt road underfoot echoed in the young Miss Jules' ears as she made her way slowly towards the city. An evening spent in rest with her family in the country had turned out, once again, to be far too short, and as she considered the long winter months ahead, the prospect of returning to the Opera became increasingly less desirable. But then, the thought of turning back to join her ailing cluster of brothers and sisters hardly seemed like a holiday, either.

Leaning her forehead against the frosted glass window, the petite dancer watched as a light dusting of snow covered the treetops that hemmed in on all sides. In the distance, a pillar of ashes and smoke polluted the sky and turned the pristine white of the winter sky overhead a dreary shade of gray. Traveling alone had ever been a bore for Miss Jules, and anything to while away the hours between St. Denis and Paris would have been a welcome interlude.

As she leaned back into the dull, aged velvet of the public carriage's ancient seats Miss Jules caught, out of the corner of her eye, an unexpected sight. Far from the monotone pattern of scenery that had been shifting from spruce to pine, pine to spruce for the first leg of the journey, the land outside of the carriage window had suddenly opened up to reveal a small, sparse clearing. Descending at a decline from the road above, the grass seemed more heavily coated in a blanket of frozen precipitation than the surrounding forest, making the heavy contrast of a red woolen scarf all the more noticeable.

With a gasp of surprise, Miss Jules pounded on the carriage roof and braced herself as the driver reigned the horses into an abrupt stand-still. Monsieur Bevierre, the coach master, was grumbling loudly in his deep, northern accent, and as she climbed cautiously down the steep metal steps outside the doorway, demanded to know "what the trouble was".

Announcing a stiff foot and the need to stretch for a moment's time, Bevierre rattled the harnesses in silent frustration and turned to survey the opposite roadside with feigned interest. Taking advantage of the moment's solitude, Miss Jules scampered down the decline and fell to her knees at the spot where she had first seen the stray garment. Searching further, her breath caught in her throat to find that the scarf was not, in fact, a misplaced item but was attached to the neck of a young woman laying sprawled atop the frigid earth. Placing a hand before the girl's cracked lips, Miss Jules assured herself that she did not behold a corpse and, without a second's thought, hoisted the slight frame onto her shoulder.

Despite a groan (of pain or surprise, Miss Jules could not discern), her ward made no resistance to her rescuer's best efforts to hoist her up onto the road. Opening her mouth to call out to Bevierre, Jules was silenced by a fleeting glimpse of the wrist beneath the stranger's damp coat. Torn between the desire to do right and the human instinct that urged her to leave the girl for dead (she was, after all, only barely alive), Jules avoided the inquiries of the carriage master and lifted the surprisingly light body into the carriage before climbing in herself. Before shutting the carriage door, she called out to Bevierre, her voice all but lost in the brisk November wind, "All set here!"

Unable to draw her gaze away from the still form of the young woman lying curled on the seat opposite her, Miss Jules wondered after her own soundness of mind and, heaving a sigh of exhaustion after the night's surprising adventure, set to work deciding what to do with her odd, new traveling companion.

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With the carriage parked neatly against the curb of the _Place de la Bastille_, Monsieur Bevierre leaned over the edge of his raised driver's bench, extending his gloved palm to Miss Jules as she retrieved her luggage and hurried off into the night. Beside her, Bevierre noticed the slouched form of a second young woman, and had to remind himself again that surely he had picked up the final passenger along the way to Paris. It had been a long journey, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Lying in the strange bed under a strange roof, wearing someone's cast-off robe beneath strange, coarse sheets, her thoughts reeled from one moment to the next with dizzying clarity. Around her and about her everything remained dark and shapeless, but inside her head the world was bedecked with light. The anxiety of the four previous hours raced through her body and left her restless, her torso wracked with minute spasms. Her adrenaline had no outlet, and she wanted more than anything for her spirit to be able to leave the singed, skeletal prison that was so haphazardly stretched out on the overstuffed mattress. Beyond emotion, her tears streamed soundlessly down her cheeks to dampen the pillow, her apathy so all-consuming that she felt incapable of mustering up the strength it would take to lift her hand to quell the flow. Anything but this, her soul screamed.

_The end of everything. To be in this place, at this time. To know nothing, to be nothing. Nothing familiar, everything strange. Never to be one, always to be a someone lost in the sea of black, hidden in night. Who but me? Why, but for this? Oh, God. God, deliver your servant. God…_

Dizzy with the smell of smoke etched eternally into her nostrils she rolled over, a wall directly in front of her. The smooth planks that paneled its expanse allowed her fingers to range over their surface, resisting the splintering of old age and the soft decay of rot and mildew. The breathy sound of deep, nocturnal breathing pressing in from all sides threatened to smother her. Overwhelmed and exhausted she succumbed to the dull aching of her limbs, feeling as though her body had collapsed into an irreparable pile of dust and stone.

It began as a faint whirring in the distance, tickling her ear but leaving her otherwise unaware. As her sobs began to quiet and her mind at last took in her situation, it was unavoidable and irresistible. Although heard at what she must assume was some distance, a music of the likes she had never before encountered filtered into the room and ensnared her senses. Paralyzed by the magic woven into the melody, it was some time before she recalled the necessity of breath. Straining to hear over the sound of her pounding heart, the pulsing of some deep, unnatural instrument claimed hold of her reason and laid bare her darkest dreams and innermost desires. It seemed as though the music spoke, and if only its words were comprehensible she would do anything it commanded of her.

She remained this way for hours, unwilling to miss a beat of the bizarre serenade. When after some time its tempo began to slow, she was ill prepared and, in a vain attempt to cling to the remnants of the now-familiar song, she sprang from repose. Clutching the bedclothes in a vise-like grip, she sat rigid and unmoving in the pitch blackness of the room, alone but for the eternal, all-consuming power of the music-from-beyond.

Gently, as though music could consciously be of itself sensitive and tender, the phantom song slowed to a rolling lullaby, flowing over her senses like rain. Suddenly and inexplicably consumed by the same exhaustion which had been for hours claiming the better of her, she found herself sinking back into the mattress, her eyelids begrudging her frantic blinking. Isolated and dead to the world, the music spirited her away in the tradition of Psyche in the favor of Eros. The chords, sensual and deep, held her beneath the waves of Lethe, and sleep at last took hold.

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Fathoms below within the chasms of the opera house, Erik played the final chords to his most novel piece. Aware of the midnight blaze above-ground but apathetic to its connotations he packed away the ream of music, unable to deny the overwhelming feeling that somehow, in some inexplicable and perplexing manner, his world had just been turned completely pell-mell.


	3. Chapter 3

Beyond a name, Miss Jules could draw nothing from her ward, and soon found herself brooding in silence by the peculiar girl's bedside. Used to the gossip and twittering of the Opera's resident ballet troupe, such quiet resolution in her companion was all but foreign to the would-be socialite, and had it not been for the plethora of matters swarming about in her weary mind, she felt certain that madness would soon accompany the deafening hush.

_Juliette_. A single word, murmured between uneasy transitions from sleep to wakefulness.

Considering her peculiar situation, Miss Jules had rejected the idea of calling for the doctor in residence and had, instead, summoned one of the mothers to the tiny dormitory cell. Although by nature (for all Opera Mothers must, at some point, come to adopt the air of a true patron and employee) brash and nosy, Madame Vita—a small, stout Italian woman who kept charge of the properties closet during Wednesday evening performances—was, nevertheless, a mother, and had taken at once to nursing Jules' "little cousin from Montmartre". When it became clear that nothing more could be done to soothe the queer new visitor than the passage of time, the cadre of curious dancers soon dispersed, leaving Jules alone with the _petit merle_.

Despite her inbred notions of duty and matters of state, Miss Jules was, at heart, a very good-natured person. Determined to do justice to the pitiful creature lying in her small, louse-ridden bed, she had spoken with Jean Denier, the floor manager and head of the vast custodial crew for the Paris Opera House. Promising him a cleaning woman for the publicly-despised midnight shift when, it seemed, the spotless House became inevitably littered with the trappings of a cast on their way to evening entertainments, she had secured the best possible safety for Juliette. Under employment by the Opera, a stranger in their midst could hardly be questioned. Whether Juliette would, in fact, accept her offer never once crossed Miss Jules' mind; what other option could a girl in her circumstance have at her disposal, after all?

The realization of Juliette's _condition_ had come as a minor shock to Miss Jules. The girl's penchant for clumsiness had been dismissed at first as awkwardness within the environment of the labyrinthine Opera House, and the nervous habit she seemed to hold of never meeting a speaker's gaze with her own was frustrating at best, but the least of Jules' worries at the time. That the girl could actually be _blind_ had never occurred to her, and she was dismayed when considering the additional burden this placed upon her. That Jean must never learn the truth was held to be nothing short of obvious, and it was cheering, at least, that Juliette never voiced her own assuredly-present discomfort.

That Juliette had not done so, however, was no great surprise; indeed, since her peculiar arrival, Miss Jules' "little cousin" had hardly opened her mouth other than to breathe, and even that seemed to be done in self-effacing moderation. Though polite when addressed, Juliette was unmovable in her resolve to never speak of the conditions by which she had come to be found in the snow-bank beyond St. Denis, and though often to be found lingering at the stage doors during rehearsals, enraptured by the music and listening with a beaming countenance, clinging to every note, she shirked at the prospect of meeting the chorale members, and always managed to slip off before any of the girls could catch a glimpse of their phantom "patron".

Over the course of the next few weeks, Miss Jules found fewer and fewer reasons to check on the progress of her ward. Engrossed in intense rehearsals for the following month's production of _Alceste_, each day began to bleed haphazardly into the next until Juliette was all but forgotten. At the corner of her mind, though, she recalled with all the intensity of a lively memory the look of complete and utter desolation etched into the strange young lady's face the night she had pulled her from the roadside. Though worried at first that family might be searching for their lost relation, it became undeniably clear that Juliette was alone in the world; the glossy-eyed stare that occupied her face whenever Jules mentioned a mother or father and the stoic, chiseled gaze that ensued resolved her to the conclusion that whatever the girl had escaped from, she had done so alone.

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Leaning heavily on the broom-handle, Juliette raised a hand to her brow to pat away the film of sweat lingering there from an evening's labor with a scrap of fabric, doubtlessly covered in filth itself, having been picked up inside the orchestra pit and pocketed for use as a make-shift handkerchief.

Without a notion for the exact time of night, she felt quite certain that it was late enough for the local gentleman's lounges to be filled with stagehands, and early enough for most of the men to have a full evening's leisure ahead of them. Grimacing at the thought of the stagehands lumbering in at dawn, reeking of alcohol and tracking in all manner of grime and dust which, though unseen through _her_ eyes, did not escape her notice when, each evening, her feet scuffed through the slough of a new patch of sand or stumbled over a stray pebble. If only the men were as easily read as the stage she had come to know so well.

Despite her blindness—or, perhaps, because of it—Juliette had come to find herself at the tail-end of a menagerie of lewd, backstage jests. Certain that the stagehands were attracted simply to her weakness rather than her physical appearance (which, she assumed, must be quite lacking in comparison to the glamour of the resident prima donna), she found herself constantly on the offensive, keeping her remaining senses alert for the approach of a sly lighting operator or a greasy properties assistant. Feigning a sincere desire to help her avoid a stray wire on the set Phillipe had, only yesterday, allowed his hand to graze, unwelcome, across the chest as he made to part a curtain which she knew to be nonexistent. She shuddered with displeasure at the recollection of the laugh he had thrown over his shoulder to his comrades when she had pulled away and tripped against a flat support.

As the tip of her broom grazed a foreign appendage jutting haphazardly from the stage floor at her feet, Juliette drew herself from her unpleasant reverie and stooped to grope about, her fingers skipping lightly across an otherwise hidden groove in the wooden planking. Prying at the notch with both hands, her broom fell with a dull _thud_ at her side, echoing its lament from the walls of the theater as it lay dejected, forgotten in the excitement of the peculiar discovery.

Rolling back and forth on the balls of her feet, she had all but given up, convincing herself that some fool of a stagehand had simply nicked the floor and that the notch wasn't, as she had so fleetingly believed it to be, the doorway to some unknown wing of the Opera. Perhaps it was for the best; for all she knew, the rooms below could be some sort of crude hideaway-harem for the rascals that worked the backstage. Determined, however, to give it one last chance, driven by some insane hope that she might finally find a place of her own in this God-forsaken Opera house, Juliette laced her fingers carefully into the cranny, and applied what she thought to be just enough pressure to dislodge any secret latch that might be holding the "door" firmly in place.

To her surprise, the floor before her gave way and, crying out a stifled gasp of pleasure, Juliette discovered that a hole had opened up in the stage that proved just large enough for her to drop her body through. Praying that the mysterious chasm would not prove perilous, she slipped through the gaping trapdoor and felt her slippered feet hit the hard, stone floor of a passageway a moment later. Overhead, her only exit slid shut of its own accord, and the air around her seemed suddenly to thicken, making it hard to catch her breath. Pursing her lips she pressed her hand against the damp roughness of a wall to her left and slid forward, her shoes barely leaving the floor as she made her way into the great unknown, making her way to whatever ends she might find beyond.


	4. Chapter 4

On and on she crept, no other noise but that of her feet padding along in rhythm to keep her company. After a time she began to feel that suffering much longer of her current exile would become simply too much. When a respite from the silence came, however, she found herself caught so by surprise that, for a moment, she considered raising an alarm, though to whom he could not say.

From the very walls, it seemed, a faint tinkling as of the sound of a hundred shards of glass waltzing together in a midsummer's breeze filtered through the frigid air. As it continued, a melody developed from the disjointed chords, and the shimmer of song began to transform into an undulating wave of music, filling the dark void and echoing from the low ceiling. Building in power, the notes seemed to take on a life of their own, piercing through her heart like a burning arrow, its shaft holding fast to her senses. Then, when it seemed as though the room could sustain the symphony no longer, it disappeared altogether, the chords no more than a memory, the room as vast and devoid of substance as when she had first dropped herself through the trap door.

It was some time before she was fully able to return to her senses. The sudden departure, as much a surprise as its impromptu entrance, had stolen her breath, and quite deprived her of motion. For many long, anxious moments she stood, straining her eyes into the eternal blackness, as though the voracity of her efforts alone could will the song to return. In its wake, realizing the melody to have ended, she staggered forward once more, unsteady still and dependent upon the rough surface of damp wall at her side to keep her on her feet, so disconcerted had she been at the climax of the mysterious song.

Having walked on for some time, she began to hum to herself, at first attempting feebly to reproduce the soaring, phantom tune, but in realizing how vain would be the effort, took to singing instead. Warming her voice, so used to disuse, with catches of songs from the current operatic libretto, she at last settled on an air from Gluck's _Alceste_, and allowed herself to be carried away in the familiar tune. Disconnected from her body, her mind and voice rose and fell, now peaking into a warbling crescendo, then falling suddenly to less than a whisper. Unconsciously she walked the expanse of the foreign hall, her feet guiding her lithe form through a labyrinth of snaking turns, redirecting themselves at each false end.

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Alone in the cavernous music room, he paused reluctantly, his fingers stiff and throbbing from hours of playing at the tiny pianoforte. Although far from being his instrument of choice, the miniature keyboard provided a respite from the ground-shaking pulsing of the organ.

Raising a hand to his forehead, he brushed away an unkempt spattering of hair. He grimaced as his fingers grazed his left cheek, the uneven ridges of flesh his constant, begrudging companions. Allowing himself a moment of brooding, self-hatred, the musician threw himself from the piano bench in frustration, pacing the room to the sound of his own harsh, guttural curses. Only when he paused, his right toe colliding painfully with the exposed edge of a table-leg, sending its contents scattering haphazardly on all sides, was he able to hear the haunting, translucent sound of a female's voice below.

Squinting into the light of a nearby torch, it took all of his powers of concentration to pick up the faint, lilting melody. He recognized the song immediately, but was hard-pressed to put a face with the voice. He had long been acquainted with the particular styles of each of the Opera's leading sopranos, and it rather singed his pride to be so at a loss as to the identity of the elusive singer. It only took another moment's contemplation and practiced listening to determine the cause.

The voice of the singer --- whoever she was --- was far too pure and unspoiled to belong to any of the Opera's conceited, self-important prima donnas. Hers was an untrained talent, and he sensed endless, untapped potential in its soaring, weightless flight. He was startled as his own intrigue, and alarmed to discover how difficult it was to draw his attention from the distant song. Realizing that the anonymous singer must be approaching through one of his own tunnels, he drew himself up, paced back to the pianoforte, and hastily replaced his mask, fastening it with uncharacteristically trembling fingers.

His first glimpse of her came fleetingly, when first a hand, then an outstretched arm emerged from the entrance he kept hidden behind a full-size looking glass. She had ceased singing by now, and was concentrating all of her focus on extricating her body from the narrow passage behind the mirror. He remarked to himself on how hesitant were her movements; each additional step forward, though fluid and graceful, seemed to be made at longer and longer intervals, until at last she had come to a complete halt in the center of the chamber, the great organ before her, the pianoforte at her left. He used her momentary pause to evaluate her slight form, and soon found himself transfixed by her subtle beauty.

Her eyes, a prominent, dominating characteristic set, as though by an artist's chisel, into her countenance, held his, and caused him to wonder at their astonishing luminosity. Large and darkly bordered by a fan of thick lashes, their deep chestnut hue retained an ether-worldly quality that he could not explain. Her skin, fair and smooth, was interrupted by her upturned mouth, lips parted into a partial, uneasy grin, revealing a row of white teeth behind her thin upper lip. Her nose, slightly rounded, peered just above her tantalizing smile, and her high cheek cones, framed by layers of dark, mahogany curls, seemed out of place on such a petite skull. She could hardly have exceeded five feet in height, and her frame, thin and shapely, seemed almost to blend into the backdrop of curtains against the wall, clad as it was in an all-consuming, long-sleeved frock and leggings of the purest ebony.  
It was not until he had looked her over all the way down to her dainty, slipper-bedecked feet that he discovered with a start that he had stepped from his present concealment in order to better view his subject. Cursing sharply under his breath, he had almost positioned himself once more behind the loose wall panel before he felt the heat of her stare on his face. She had been looking back at him the entire time, he realized, and still she showed no sign of acknowledgement.

Curious, he removed himself entirely from hiding and, encouraged by her breathy sigh and persistent gazing about in the dim candlelight, strode soundlessly to her side. He had spent years perfecting his stealth, and it pleased him exceedingly to be able to lean into her presence, breathing deeply of her fragrant hair without the slightest flinch of awareness. Without thinking, his hand had lifted searchingly to her head, hovering above the flowing mass of curls. She made no motion of recognition until, at last, emboldened by her apparent apathy, he allowed himself to caress one soft, twisted tendril.

A shudder ran down her spine as though she had been rapidly submerged in sub-artic waters, the touch jolting her back into the moment with all the suddenness of the hand of death itself. Gasping, her own hands flew to her face as his returned, with a jolt, to his side. Spinning about in a heady whirl of aroma, filling his nostrils with the sweet scent of violin rosin and laundry soap, she turned herself to face him, shielding her face with her arms, crossed before her like a makeshift crucifix.

Although far from being surprised by her reaction, Erik felt as though he had been unprepared for the sort of welcome the stranger elicited. Hovering somewhere between irritation and bemusement, the dark musician crossed his arms to his chest, watching the girl as she lowered her own from before her face, backing away little by little until her heel caught on the same, blasted table as he himself had collided with only minutes before. Losing all sense of balance and obviously doubly unnerved, the girl lost her footing and came crashing down on the hard stone floor, her skirts lying helter-skelter about her ankles and her hair, dashed across her face, provided a veil to shield from view whatever emotion was now permeating from her lovely countenance.

Hesitating, Erik made his way around the piano bench and stood at her side, realizing that she needed no further reminder of his presence after their earlier encounter. When it became obvious that she could not easily right herself on her own he bent silently, gripping her exposed wrist in what he hoped was a friendly gesture of aide. Recoiling, the as-yet nameless singer's opposite hand flew at once to the wrist from whence his had just departed, pointedly pulling the hem of her long, black sleeve down towards her fingertips. Exhaling in a sorry attempt to control his mounting frustration, Erik backed away, any assistance he might provide being so clearly undesired. Seating himself gruffly on the piano bench at his back, he turned his frame to face the keyboard of the massive instrument and, laying his fingers on the keys, took to playing the first aria that came into mind.

At the far edge of his peripheral vision, Erik sensed a change come over his unexpected guest. Rising from the floor as though mesmerized by the chords, where she had at first been aghast to approach him she now drew closer, her right hand raised only slightly to aide in guiding her towards the grand piano. Pausing at its side, her fingers lightly brushing its polished, golden top, she closed her eyes and seemed to give herself over completely to the flow of the song.

Turning his full attention to his rapt audience, Erik's hands paused completely mid-verse, staring through narrowed eyes, taking in the changed persona of the young woman to his left. As the chords dissolved it was as though a spell had been broken; blinking, the girl seemed to have emerged from a trance, and with the emergence came the return of her previous anxiety. He noticed her fingers tensing on the piano as she took in the varied surroundings, and it seemed as though she was now intent on finding his location and placing as much distance as possible between him and her.

"You know the song?" he ventured, realizing much too late that the question was not only unnecessary, but ill-timed as well. Unabashed by the slight contortion of her lips at the sound of his unfamiliar voice, he continued, striving as best as he knew how to cause his voice to adopt an unpracticed and rather rough tone of paternal kindness.

"I heard you singing in the caverns beyond this room. You have no reason to fear; I know you did not find your way here purposely."

With each new, awkward word Erik winced. Imagine _him_, the frightful entity thought to lurk in the shadows of the opera house, sitting casually and conversing with what he could only guess must be a very lost, very frightened chorus member.

When she abstained from responding and commenced her fruitless search for the elusive door from which she had initially emerged, he resumed his grip on the keyboard and returned seamlessly to the last-played note of the aria. Sensing her attentions had changed, he decided to beseech her one last time. For some inexplicable reason, Erik felt a nagging need to learn more about the strange woman in black and her glorious, haunting voice.

"Come," he beckoned vocally, letting the one word bridge the distance between them. As though on command she approached, an expression of intrigued bewilderment on her face and he, encouraged by the bizarre power the music seemed to hold over her, extended one hand while maintaining an upbeat trill with the other. Despite her obvious sightlessness, she seemed drawn to his general aura and, laying her hand lightly in his, allowed herself to be drawn to his side. As she grew nearer, Erik noticed her entire frame trembling despite her total lack of resistance.

Bewitched by the wide-eyed stare she had fixed on his face, it took a moment before he could command his limbs to move and his mind to stray beyond the recollection of her haunting voice. Seating himself at the piano bench, he felt her body settle beside his, the heat of her gaze boring into his skull. Clearing his head, Erik started into a light aria, something he vaguely recalled Monsieur Cleveite assigning to La Sorenta for the opening of last month's winter gala. As the lively _pizzicato_ gave way to a rolling _crescendo_, he felt her attention wavering; changing seamlessly into a passionate piece evoking the power and mystery of nature from Runicini's _Arianna_, a hint of familiarity shimmered in the way her fingers flew to her lips, fluttering as though overwhelmed by the need to withhold the notes he knew lay dormant in her throat.

Struck by an impulse that surprised even himself, Erik disengaged himself from the keyboard and grasped her wrist and drew it from her face. With his other hand he resisted the urge to still her quivering chin, returning it instead to the piano and applying pressure enough to set the room ablaze with the resonating chord that established the singer's key.

"You know the song," he rasped, unable to mask his own fervor. "Why are you afraid of what you already know?"

Turning fully to face the instrument, Erik started into the introduction once more, pausing just before the soprano's entrance and holding her gaze, forgetting, if only for a moment, that she could not possibly behold his confident grin and his intent stare.

"Sing."

Rising from the piano bench with the grace of an actress performing her final, heart-wrenching speech to an audience of bleary-eyed patrons, the girl delivered the first few notes as though exhausted from the effort of withholding them for so long. As the accompaniment continued, however, her voice improved with the hesitant introduction of an illustrious tonality and all the advantage of a broad range and ability to traverse from pitch to pitch.

_Non per altro esce il Sol dall'orizonte,_

_Che per furar à le sue cime belle_

_Raggi da farsi un diadema al fronte…_

Pounding out the final chords with unnecessary force, Erik spun from the bench as the concluding chords echoed against the stone architecture, leaping to his feet, fully intent on applauding his partner's performance. Her voice needed work, certainly: she lacked the proper breath support, and some inbred restraint held her back from delivering the chorus at its best, but she had the talent of ten La Sorentas, and the elegance of demeanor befitting twenty.

The sight of her, however, silenced his praise; unsteady on her feet, she stumbled back and, through mere chance, fell onto the cushions of a miniature chaise lounge. Kneeling by its side, Erik frowned at her shortness of breath, each new attempt to fill her chest with air resulting in a labored rasp. Her complexion seemed to have paled, and the trembling of a few minutes prior had succumbed to a full-body tremor. Raising his ear to the level of her mouth, he was able to catch a few of the whispered words that she was working so desperately to make audible, he started to pick up an "s'avvien" and a stammered "rinovelle".

The song! For whatever reason, she had resumed the song and seemed incapable of drawing her mind from the memory of the libretto. Seizing her shoulders and stilling her restless body, he raised his voice and commanded her: "Enough! _Fin_!"

With one final shudder, she seemed calmed at last and, blinking as though emerging from the depths of a hypnotist's trance, caught her breath and clasped her forehead to her palm, regaining her bearings with the disorientation of a sleepwalker awakened from their nightly pacing. Jolted into sudden realization, she threw herself from beneath his firm grip, tensing with all the renewed terror her entrance and realization of him had earlier provoked.

"Who… who are you?" she stammered, her eyes frantically searching about her in a futile attempt to know from which direction her pursuer might next attack.

Rising to his feet and straightening his lapel, Erik let out a low chuckle and bowed to his strange guest.

"I, mademoiselle, am your humble _Maestro_."


	5. Chapter 5

Applying extra pressure to the keys of the piano and evoking an improvisational crescendo, Erik utilized one of the many strategies he and Juliette had constructed to make up for the difficulties her eyesight had proved for his role as her teacher. She had a quick mind for memorization, but as she became more familiar with his methods of conduction, her impairments seemed more frequently to slip his mind. Often were his interjections of frustration, pounding on the wood of the instrument's casements and startling his pupil into frightened silence.

"An F _sharp_, Juliette," he would say, his voice dark and tinged with an irritation his mind could not justify. Only the sound of her voice, muted and unconvincingly indifferent, murmuring a soft apology would check his unprovoked anger. Wincing, he would watch her body language as she sunk under the weight of some invisible burden before rolling her shoulders back, reassuming the upright choral position he had taught her during their first evening's lesson.

Erik had proven himself to be a strict _maestro_, indeed. Though no less enamored by her pure chords as when he had first heard them reverberating from the walls of his cavernous home, his praises had turned to demands for improvement on her inoculation as his student. Perhaps it was his unwillingness to let her talent go unfettered that drove him to adopt an air of aloof stoicism throughout each lesson, requiring of his pupil the most rapt of attentions and hours of rehearsal outside of their nightly meetings, or perhaps it was simply his inexperience as the musical mentor of a fellow musician, no matter how amateur or new to the trade.

Far above their heads, the tolling of the great clock beyond the opera square announced the second hour of morning as Juliette started into a new serenade, her ears attuned to the light notes of the melody that he played beneath her singing. As he worked through a crescendo, shifting ever-so-slightly from _piano_ to a vivacious _mezzo-forte_, she found herself struggling to sustain her air supply during a tied pair of half notes. Hesitating as the tone faltered weakly, she braced herself mentally for the chiding that was sure to follow.

The chastisement never came, however. Rising from the piano bench, Erik paced the narrow room, musing aloud half to himself as Juliette clasped her hands behind her back, waiting uncertainly for the rehearsal to continue.

"The notes are flawless, as always. Nothing lacking in pitch. It's the breath support. Always the breath-support, but how to make you remember?"

His long strides bringing him swiftly to her side, he placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and drew them towards himself, straightening her posture.

"First of all, you must always keep your airways elongated," he murmured, his mind already contemplating what ought next to be suggested. Extending his arm, Erik grasped her right hand in his own. Ignoring her start of surprise and the rigidity of protestation that coursed through her upper body he positioned her hand, palm flat against her stomach, his keeping it securely in place. His left hand resting atop her shoulder, he commanded her to resume the sonata where she had left off.

No sooner had she reached the double half-notes than he was shaking his head, releasing a rough sigh and tightening the force of his grip upon her shoulder intentionally.

"Forgive me, maestro," Juliette managed. Taken aback by his forwardness and unaccustomed to this unprecedented physicality, she could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and wondered whether he could see the blush that must even now be spreading from head to toe.

"You're breathing too high, Juliette was his impatient explanation. "How often must I remind you that you must breathe from _below_ if you want to make one breath last? Short gasps like that will hardly do those eight counts any justice. Now _inhale_, and make our hands move."

Doing as she had been told, Juliette closed her eyes and made every effort to use the air entering her lungs to inflate her abdomen. Succeeding, she let the breath escape her lips in the form of a sigh of relief, warranting a wry grin from her teacher, who seemed to have no intentions of releasing her from his awkward grip.

"Again, but from the tenth measure. This time, make sure you breathe _properly_ before you reach the _fermata_, and follow the dictations. There is a _crescendo_ there, remember?"

Nodding faintly, she imagined the swelling of the instrumentals before her entrance and let her melody compliment the music in her mind. As she neared the _fermata_, however, she became uncomfortably conscious of his hands at her waist, and feared that her concentration would break until she heard his voice, soft and soothing at her ear, pressing her to continue. Filling herself with sustaining air, Juliette did not fear the _crescendo_, and let the sound of her own voice soar through the note that had before given her so much grief. She scarcely noticed Erik's reluctance in detaching himself from her as he hesitated to remove his hands from hers, suddenly out of place but no less necessary.

Laughter playing at her lips, Juliette spun about that she might fully accept the appraisal that was sure to come. When no such affirmation gave her reason to believe her teacher pleased, her smile faltered and she lowered her head to hide her disappointment. As the spark of joy died from her countenance, Erik winced and almost reached out to cup her face in his gloved hand, having almost to physically restrain himself with the other to keep from doing so. Frightened by the violence of this new emotion, he turned from her to regain composure and found himself unable to look at her sloping shoulders without feeling a ripple of nausea overcome his palate.

"It has been a long night," he said, his voice devoid of either praise or disappointment. "You may go, Juliette. You will need these hours of rest before the Company wakes at dawn."

"Yes, Maestro," Juliette whispered, her faint response automatic and incapable of conveying the devastation she felt at his distance.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Erik longed to restrain her as she turned her back to him and left through the catacomb-like tunnels that would lead her back to the upper levels of the opera house. She was well beyond the scope of his pursuing stare when in the dark recesses of the cavernous pathways she sunk to her knees against the cold stone at her feet, her head resting heavily on the damp wall and her tears mingling with the water that condensed on its rough surface.


	6. Chapter 6

The sound of crackling leaves underfoot was deafening as she made her way timidly down the foreign path. The briskness of a chill breeze and the sharp smell of fall surrounded her, filling her with a feeling of euphoria. Her mind straying elsewhere, her feet stumbled across the hard bark of a protruding root and, before she could utter an exclamation of surprise, his strong hand was cupping her elbow, steadying her. Breathing in gratefully, she paused only for a moment before continuing, feeling her way with her toes more confidently now, though she wished with all her might that she could see as well as sense what must be a beautiful fall morning.

He could sense her growing weariness, and he gently led her off the path, applying a soft pressure to her shoulder to indicate that it was safe to sit upon the moss-covered ground below. As she reached for his hand, verifying his presence at her side, he allowed his mouth to tip into a slight smile as he remembered how, less than a month ago, she would have trembled at the touch of his gloved fingers on her wrist. He secretly could not blame her less, but their casual familiarity was relaxing.

As they reclined together, she lying on her back with her hair streaming about her head haloed in glowing, golden chestnut curls he leaning forward, cross-legged, his head in his hands, proceeded to describe the vibrant colorings of the leaves that had fallen about them. The very pigmentation of the sunrise he painted with his words, the shape and flight of the sparrows overhead defining themselves in her mind as his descriptions merged together with the sound of their chirping in her mind.

After continuing on in this manner for some time, he paused to take a breath. The sun had fully risen, and the heat of its face was beaming down through the canopy in a wave of warmth. Noticing an absence of motion beside him, he turned his head to glance down at her still form and realized, with a grin, that she had fallen asleep as he was speaking. Slowly and rhythmically her chest rose and fell, the quiet whisper of breath escaping from between her lips in soft puffs that rose in an evanescent vapor above her relaxed face. Staring back at the sun briefly, he pulled himself onto one knee, kneeling to scoop her light frame into his arms. She did not stir as he rose fully and returned down the path from whence they came, his own foot falls making no sound as they returned towards the opera house.

Slipping in through a side door obscured from the view of passersby by a tall hedge of overgrown shrubbery, he ducked beneath the low ceiling of the props closet he had entered. The sound of raised voices beyond the threshold alerted him to the presence of stagehands nearby, and as he stepped from the darkness into the dim glow of the lamps illuminating the wings beyond, he was careful to remain unnoticed. Keeping to the shadows he made his way briskly to the foot of the stairs, holding her tightly to his chest as he proceeded up into the cat walk. There did not appear to be anyone on duty above the stage, and he continued his nimble traipse at a leisurely pace. Scaling a series of rope ladders with ease, he situated her sleeping body so that he had a secure hold with one arm, and with the other he reached into the darkness beyond the last platform. As though summoned, a thick rope swung into his outstretched palm and, clutching it, he descended at an alarmingly swift pace towards the stage floor. When it seemed that collision was inevitable, he stiffened the tip of his boot and swung it forwards so that it made contact with a crack in the brick of the wall to his right. Below them, a square in the floor fell away, just big enough to admit the pair, and as soon as they were out of sight, it swung back into its unassuming position seamlessly.

Landing softly moments later, he glanced down briefly to check on the well-being of his companion and, satisfied that she was oblivious to their perilous plunge, continued down the corridor before him, the hint of a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. At the end of the passageway he swung open a hidden, sliding panel and let himself into the vast chamber beyond. The sound of the door sliding shut disturbed her slumber, and in sleep her eyes fluttered vaguely. Pausing, anxious that she should not be disturbed, he ducked beneath a low portico built into the wall at his left.

Beyond the columned threshold, he maneuvered with ease through the impermeable blackness that filled the room. Reaching into the abyss, his fingers lighted upon the turnkey of a faintly-burning lantern, and with a slight turn of his wrist the room was illuminated in a flood of muted, sapphire light.

Parting the curtains of a canopied bed with practiced ease, he lowered her still form onto the soft down of the mattress. Careful to leave her in peace, he slipped quietly to the wardrobe across the room, removing a blanket woven in a delicate pattern of emerald green and vibrant ochre. In drawing the cover over her he noticed, with chagrin, that her shoulders were shaking as with a pervading chill. In that instant he felt an almost irrepressible urging to gather her weightless form in his arms. He felt he must shield her, though from what he could not be sure. Checking himself, he drew back awkwardly from the bed, bracing himself with a firm grip on the bedside table. His fingers brushing a hard object veiled in shadow, he kneeled beside the bedstead and removed the hard, leather piece from its varnished surface.

His mask, glaring up at him from his open palm, made a menacing impression against the black of his gloves. Narrowing his eyes in disbelief, he realized that he had gone through the day without it.

_Thank God for her sight._


	7. Chapter 7

With all the strength that two trembling hands can provide, Juliette made her way cautiously up the ladder, her Teacher's voice at her back.

"It isn't much farther, but you mustn't be frightened. The air in the performance hall is much different when it is filled with spectators, _mon chanson_."

At the reference to her innocent pet-name, Juliette beamed and very nearly lost her hold on the smooth rungs in making the instinctual motion of raising her palms to her face to mask the rosy blush that overtook her countenance at moments such as these. Feeling Erik's hand at her back, however, reminded her quickly of the magnanimity of the situation.

Having studied as a rapt pupil under her solemn Instructor for little over a month, broadening her repertoire and inflating her respect for the mysterious Genius, Erik had declared it high time for Juliette to attend an opera. Though not the first occasion for her having listened in during the performance of some score or another, her teacher seemed to think it of the utmost importance that she glean the sentiments of an observer rather than remaining in the staunch attitude of a performer.

Whenever Erik spoke of her "coming out"—as he did only in moments of intense passion, after the completion of a successful aria or a particularly feeling rendition of a favorite ballad—Juliette could not help but turn from her mentor, silenced by the power that only his voice could command.

"When you make your debut, _mon chanson_," he was fond of saying, "you will feel the vibration of the applause long before you hear a single 'Bravo!' You will not be like that scad Sorelli, feigning gratitude for her fans. You will know what it is to appreciate true opera, and you will be _humbled_ by their applause."

Distracted by her memories, Juliette stumbled as her feet found they had nowhere else to go. They had reached the top of the passage, and Erik was already somehow at the top of the scaled flight, the strong grip of his right hand fastened about her wrist, the other awaiting her further assent that he might lift her by her waist without any further strenuousness to her being.

Murmuring a muted "thank you", ­­­­Juliette followed in Erik's wake towards the sound of a low drone somewhere up ahead. Lifting her eyes in silent question, he informed her that they were somewhere just beyond the Opera Hall, a mere wall and fathomless yards of velvet draperies separating them from the crème de la crème of Paris. Viscounts, clerics, lawyers… the very idea made her head spin.

When at last she heard Erik's footfalls cease ahead, Juliette awaited the guiding hand that promptly ushered across some hidden portcullis and through the now-unlocked doorway opening into Box Five of the Opera House's grand tier. Often spoken of among the flighty dancers of the Opera's juvenile troupe, Juliette was familiar with its nickname as the "Forbidden Throne". Just for whom it was kept open for she could only imagine, and on recognizing the reference as Erik informed her of their position (as he was want to do when bringing her about novel areas of the theatre), wondered at their being inside it at all.

The dull drone of a few moments hence had suddenly become a thunderous cacophony of voices mingling with the shrill tunings of the orchestra's wind section, the screech of some violin's string being played upon by an inadequately-rosined bow and the almost inaudible _tap tap_ of someone's first drumming lightly at the box door at her back.

The latter being completely unprepared for, it was all Juliette could do to keep from grasping for her Teacher's secure arm. He, however, seemed completely nonplussed as she heard him rise from his seat to approach the door and inquire in soft tones after a foot-stool. The object being procured, he helped her to a comfortable position, she blushing under the surplus of attention and feeling altogether like a debutante before her first ball, nervously fidgeting her hands in her lap until the orchestra took up its opening chords and the audience fell silent in anticipation.

The opera (the latest production of _Faust_) was unlike anything she could have prepared herself for. Though familiar with the libretto, the experience of having the entire ensemble before her, performing as though for her ears alone, was breathtaking. For once she felt as though her lack of sight was of absolutely no consequence; the very music painted the images she ought to have seen in her mind's eye, and though Erik interrupted her reverie occasionally to comment on the roughness in La Carlotta's _crescendo_, Juliette would admit to finding no fault in the company's performance.

At the end of the final act, Juliette felt the press of Erik's hand against her own, signaling their need for a hasty departure. As she groped for the door from whence they had entered the box, he stopped her with the sound of his throat being awkwardly cleared. Standing at her side she could sense him exacting a deep bow, imagining it to have been performed with the utmost courtesy, and felt her cheeks flush as the petals of a single rose were set against her unsuspecting palm.

She would attend many other operas with her Teacher over the following months, but none could stand as equal in her mind as the performance of _Faust_. It was only later that night when she had retired to her room that Juliette realized with devastation that she had misplaced her floral gift, having dropped on the floor of Box Five unwittingly between the initial surprise of its reception and the harried exit from the World of the Patrons and down once more into the familiar catacombs of the Opera House.


	8. Chapter 8

The heat of the musician's breath left clouds of vapor in the frigid, December air. Despite the temperature, Erik had sought refuge on the roof of the Opera after a futile attempt to overcome a sleep wrought with nightmarish visions. Plagued by the hellish flames and devils' screams that echoed still in his waking mind, he had climbed the steep path to the top of the massive structure, and sat perched behind the peak of a stone turret overlooking the sleeping city of Paris.

The life that filled its streets and bazaars by day had long since diminished. The infamous, urban party-goers and rabble-rousers, their breaths hot with drink, had slunk off to foreign beds and all was silent, save for the barking of a stray dog in the distance and the creaking of so many houses settling in their crooked foundations. Bristling in the wake of a brisk, winter breeze, Erik tried to appreciate the peace of those solemn hours, but found that the void of life and gaiety left him emptier still.

His eyes turned downwards to the time-weathered box at his feet. Bound in now-brittle leather, the long case sat amid the rubble of the rooftop, its hinges gleaming in the moonlight despite the rust that speckled their golden crafting. Unlatching and throwing back the top, Erik drew from its bowels a slender, polished violin and, fingering its strings and settling his chin into its piece, removed also the sleek, horse-hair bow. Hesitating only long enough to settle upon a proper tune, he felt his soul carried away on the clean chords the instrument released into the crisp night air. For a moment, he felt as though he could almost see the notes as they whirled away westward on a moist wind.

Carrying on in this fashion, he allowed his mind to think on other things. Casting aside the creatures of his dreams, he found himself lingering on the image of Juliette, her hand lightly resting atop the piano and her brow knitted in deep concentration upon the notes flowing forth from its deep interior. The sound of her voice as it daily filled his cavernous dwelling mingled with the notes from the violin, and he hardly second-guessed the smile that came over his countenance, brightening an otherwise stony countenance.

In his reverie, he had failed to notice that he was no longer alone in the sanctuary of the rooftop alcove. A blanket of snow that had fallen that afternoon had muffled the sound of footsteps approaching, and it was only the sound of a jingling as from a small article of jewelry that managed to attract his attention from his pleasant musings. Squinting darkly into the shadows, the music from his instrument died away as his bow lifted from the quivering strings in one swift, fluid movement. As the tune dissolved skyward and silence prevailed once more, so too did the figure at the opposite end of the encasement halt its movements awkwardly, a lilting step giving way to a rigid stance of inaction.

Curious, he rose from his position, crouched beneath the slate eaves and rose, resuming his playing as he moved quietly towards the form of his intruder. With a raised eyebrow did he note that they seemed to respond to the voice of the violin, harkening to its call as it once more captivated the moment with its rich tone and unerring _legato_. Emerging under the light of the heavens, Erik started as he recognized the shape and stature of his unexpected companion.

Clad in a cotton nightdress and robe, Juliette twirled beneath the open sky, arms outstretched and head thrown back as though to invite the very angels to join her in her dance. Her hair being lately loosed from its cap, curls tumbled down her back and surrounded her face in a chestnut halo that added to the preternatural air of her appearance as they tossed and swayed to the rhythm of her feet, their slippers hardly seeming to touch the ground as they propelled her forward in a frenzied spin. The unmistakable signs of mirth played at the corners of her lips as she changed her pace to match the tempo of the music filling the air and it seemed, for a moment, as though all the world held its breath while the song stagnated on a whole note and her lungs drew in breath to support the exertions of her efforts.

Erik took advantage of the momentary break to bridge the distance between himself and his pupil, struck by her ethereal beauty and struggling to regain control of his emotions which, he realized, corresponded to the rapid beating of his heart. With a murmured "Juliette" so as not to startle her, he extended his bow-hand in a gesture meant to find it in contact with her trembling shoulder. Such contact being made, he flinched at the violence of her reaction; doubling back and stumbling on the smooth, icy stone, he watched her as she landed with a dull _thud_ onto a shallow snow bank. When she abandoned all efforts to right herself, Erik laid his instrument down on an uneven slab of stonework jutting from the wall, an error of some long-dead mason that served, for the time being, as a makeshift shelf. Exerting more caution he bent at her side and noted with wonder how deep was her breathing, and how still did she remain atop the icy cushion. In taking hold of her thin arm he ignited once more the passion which had landed her in her current position, her entire body shuddering from a force other than the wind that now pelted against her frail form, ill-guarded for such weather in his thin apparel.

Not allowing himself to be so taken aback as before, he kept a firm grip with the one hand and with the other moved to take hold of her waist, drawing her up and muttering under his breath at whatever motivation had inspired her to come out into the night air and risk a cold. The lack of an active response from her drew instant concern, however, and as he bent his head to take in her expression, realized with surprise that her face held, now, all the peace of a slumbering wanderer on the shores of Lethe.

Her bent frame yet shaking from whatever imagined danger she perceived herself to be in, Erik drew her body into his waiting embrace, nudging his cloak from his own shoulders to better shield her from the elements. Breathing in her familiar scent, he wondered what cruel memory tucked away in her dormant subconscious had been revived by his touch. A quiet moan and a gentle stirring marked her transition to wakefulness, and as her eyelids blinked open to reveal inquisitive, dark irises seeking vainly the nature of her position, he whispered into her ear in a voice he only hoped was soothing.

"You have wandered from your bed, _mon chanson_. You've dreamt of fell things, but they are no more; I am here."

As she took in the meaning of his words, she drew her head from its resting place against his chest and sought with her right hand to affirm his identity through what senses remained. Inquiring whether she could stand and receiving a slow nod in response, Erik lifted Juliette to her feet and guided her with one hand around her back towards the wooden door that led into the Opera House.

Leaving her alone at her bedside and certain that she would not recall any of the night's activities, he made his way slowly down into the dark catacombs beneath the theatre, his feet leading him down the familiar path and allowing room for his thoughts to roam. Reflecting with awe on the goings-on of an hour prior, the memory of her submission to the violin's trilling left him wondering at what further power his music might have on her susceptible mind. Plagued by guilt that manifested itself in a physical pain lodged deep in his gut at the connotation of such thoughts, still he could not keep himself from recalling with longing the air of expectation her waiting form had exuded as he had prolonged an otherwise brief _fermata_ and left his song hanging on the thin, winter air.


	9. Chapter 9

The masked ball had been the only think spoken of in the ballet dormitories for weeks and now, with the date drawing nearer, it was all Juliette could do to clear her mind with the intensity and fervor of the chattering that daily pulsed among the chorus members. From the great prima donna to the youngest dancer-in-training, every breath was used to pour out in predictions on the weather for the evening, what everyone would be wearing and with whom they would attend. Never once did the girls think to invite the strange, quiet cleaning woman into their conversations. Even Miss Vernes thought it best to remain silent in her presence; after all, what use could Juliette have for the splendors of an opera masquerade?

No one could have known that Juliette had her own plans for the evening. When Erik had mentioned the masquerade, she had turned her head and pretended indifference. If he insisted on bringing it up during their lessons, she made a cold remark on the vanity of such an affair and averted her eyes. That he had finally come out and asked her to accompany him had been almost more than she could bear.

At first she remained resistant, answering him shyly and insisting that her presence would be cumbersome. Surely he knew of another who could play the role of debutante? His ironic smirk at the assumptions of such a question was lost on her, and it was not until he made it plain that it was his specific desire that she repay his tutelage with her attendance—a small recompense, surely—did she finally consent.

The night finally arrived and, after the dormitories had cleared and the company had long since departed, dressed in their gaudy fineries, Juliette remained seated at the window seat and gazing with sightless eyes out into a cloudless Paris sky. Breathing deeply of the breeze wafting through the open panes, she tried vainly to calm the frantic beating of her heart. Rising to her feet, she measured the distance from the dormitory door to the western corridor, felt along the gilded wall that denoted the shifting of rooms from sleeping quarters to dressing rooms, and found the right tapestry to slip behind, descending through the wooden panels into the cool environs of the opera cellars.

As she walked, she wondered once more what purpose her teacher could have in insisting she attend the public gala. He had always had a mysterious way of conducting himself that bespoke of hidden intentions known only to him, and of whose outcomes he was already sure. He would not have asked her to be his guest lightly, and realizing this, Juliette felt the color drain from her face as she reflected on the likelihood of her embarrassing both herself and her esteemed Maestro.

Erik had been pacing the floors of his chamber prior to Juliette's arrival. At the sound of footfalls at a short distance, however, he stilled his anxious limbs and leaned against a pillar of dark marble, trying futilely to come to his normal composure.

Greeting her warmly and leading her closer to the central brazier that alone heated the vast room, he watched her every movement as though he expected at any moment she might strike out against him. After a moment's silence wherein she knelt gracefully in the heat of the live coals, Erik bent to kneel by her side, and stared intently at her soft-featured face.

"It is a very important day, Juliette," he said calmly. Inclining her head, she silently inquired after an explanation which he was all too eager to give. With a quiet chuckle he continued. "It is your birthday, you know."

"My birthday," she repeated uncertainly. "What can you mean?" The smile that played at her lips did not hide her open surprise at such a declaration, and the seconds without an answer that followed seemed to her to stretch on for hours.

"Indeed," he replied. "It is a year to this day since you first wandered into my music room. The Fates must have been kind to me, to bring me such a gift. It is my wish to return the favor."

At a loss as to what he could be alluding to, and completely taken aback by the suddenness of his remark, Juliette yielded to the pressure of his hand against her elbow, helping her to her feet and guiding her across the room. She did not protest when he took her hands in his own and stretched them before her, the heat of his breath and the pulse of his heart melding with hers as, unwittingly, he breached more physical boundaries than anyone had done in a very long time.

"It seems cruel that you should live your life in darkness, never to appreciate real beauty," Erik said softly, resuming the thought as he saw she meant to protest. "I have done what I can to teach you to see with your remaining senses and to live in the music that you sing. However, it seems a pity that you should not know true beauty when it resides so close to you."

Freeing one hand, Erik turned his attention to the pedestal before which they stood. Grasping the velvet cover and discarding it haphazardly, he revealed a carefully sculpted bust made of a pure white clay. Glazed and fired, the likeness needed only the blush of a rosy disposition to give it all the appearance of life. Placing Juliette's trembling hands to the face of the sculpture, he released his own grip and stepped away from the statuette and its lovely, living model.

As her fingers grazed the surface of the graven imitation before her, all thought was driven from her mind and she found herself breathless at what she now held at arms length. Emboldened, she stepped closer to the pedestal and stretched her palms against the carefully carved features, exploring every nook of the meticulously wrought work as though discovering its mysteries was the only thing holding her to reality. When she made to speak, the words caught in her throat, and what emerged was a breathless rasp.

"This is…"

"Yes," Erik smiled, stepping forward once more and taking her left hand in his right. As she turned in the direction of his voice, eyes wide and lips parted speechlessly, he placed her own palm against the smooth curve of her cheekbone and allowed his hand to rest where it lay. "There are some things lovelier than the most intricate aria, _mon chanson_."

Juliette suddenly felt faint, and stumbled backwards. Finding herself leaning against her master's solid frame for support, her cheeks flushed as she straightened her posture, extricating her hands from his and folding them before her in a subservient fashion.

"Maestro," she murmured, "perhaps I should dress. The night is no longer young, and I am hardly in any shape to appear before men and women of means."

Glancing distractedly over her small frame clad still in its customary black garb, Erik rubbed his temples and muttered a word of dismissal. He had designated a secluded space for the purpose, and it was to this corner that he directed her now. Behind the folding screens a dress he had chosen weeks in advance lay ready for their new wearer, and as he awaited the conclusion her final preparations, he allowed himself briefly to succumb to the violent, roiling emotions that churned within his breast.


End file.
